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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24855049">yestoday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nflying/pseuds/nflying'>nflying</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>??? - Freeform, Colors, Dystopia, Gen, Time Fuckery, for now. i think, it's kinda weird, like idk what's going on but i swear i wasn't high, no fr idk what to tag this, not plot just vibes, space</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:40:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24855049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nflying/pseuds/nflying</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The colors, however, he knew, were stained on him forever. A hovering presence, a glowing aura, each hue has the capability of telling a story; all you have to do is ask it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>yestoday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>now what the hell is this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>—</p><p>A misfit in the alleyway, why was he there?</p><p>Electric pink laced through his hand, rosy pigment intertwining the delicate fingers pushing aside those sly strands of hair that fell before his eyesight. There, Taeyong: flimsy raincoat sailing, newly pillaged boots pounding, his shadows tailing him, sweeping across the damp cement of a narrowing alleyway.</p><p>Quite literally narrowing.</p><p>His quickening steps echoed off the surrounding walls, as they closed in ever nearer on either side. Worn bricks inched closer to him each passing second. With its colors very visibly distorted—some in certain areas more than others—it resembles a toddler’s coloring page: wrong shades scribbled on spent sheets, unevenly filled in and out of the lines with rough, broken crayons. Unnatural hues jutted out harshly among the original tone of exhausted brick red; at least, that’s what Taeyong can assume to be the original.</p><p>As he ran, the colors ran with him, seeping down the walls and the posters attached. And according to their own conscience and mood, they gather into jittery puddles or slither into the airstream of Taeyong’s movement. Each particle had a mind of its own, a will of its own, and every particle decided to chase him down the alley.</p><p>The hues smeared his skin, his clothes, his vision, and the vibrations from his footsteps only blurred them further. He couldn’t see anything except the tiny staircase at the end of the passage that he had fixated on the moment he stepped in. The exit wasn’t far off, he could see as much. But he could also see the opening condense before his eyes.</p><p>He began to lose focus within the smart array of colors encoding themselves into his eyes. That is until a wall nudged his left shoulder. This is when he began to imperceptibly panic, just a little more than he would like to admit. It had never gotten this bad, not since when it first started. He nearly trips over his ungainly white shoes as he rotated his torso and adjusted his posture to fit through the ever-decreasing space. So maybe he shouldn’t have stolen the first pair that solely looked aesthetically pleasing and waterproof.</p><p>The last five steps up the staircase, he was forced to shuffle up sideways. It was an awkward position, and when his foot finally landed on open ground, he barely caught himself stumbling forward through the gravel, skidding to a halt just before the gust of air and dust generated by the parallel buildings crashing together hit his back. He lets out the breath he was involuntarily holding alongside the multicolored breeze.</p><p>Blinking a few times, his hands instinctively reach up to brush his dark jeans of the sediments that were kicked up from the movement of the crumbling walls. The colors, however, he knew, were stained on him forever. A hovering presence, a glowing aura, each hue has the capability of telling a story; all you have to do is ask it.</p><p>Insouciantly, Taeyong spun around. He examined the walls that were on the verge of crushing him to death mere seconds ago; they were back to where they were as if nothing happened, as if it was all a hallucination, a dream.</p><p>Nothing seemed touched except the newfound vivid streaks lining up the walls and enormous splotches coating every inch of concrete. Every hue imaginable was present, and upon every seeable surface they lay, as if a color bomb went off in the backstreet. The colors merge and mingle; they connect and amalgamate into an unhinged, brilliant painting upon the walls.</p><p>Objectively, it was beautiful. But Taeyong, with his heart heavy, mind brimming, skin stained raw, had gotten past the initial awe of the kaleidoscopic phenomena’s surface allure a long, long time ago.</p><p>(How long has it truly been?)</p><p>—</p><p>Behind those blemished bricks, a caged songbird sings. Mellow notes linked soulfully, intricately. Each note like honey, dripping from his throat; every drop causing a ripple, wavelets fanning across tranquil waters. One by one, those gentle ripples rebound off monochrome borders. They undulate, filtering through prisms; they serve as the only essence of color within the ocean of paper-coated walls.</p><p>The melody dims. A caught glimpse of the neglected doorway: silver handle corroded from lack of use, hinged oxidized by melted hues. His eyes trace along the psychedelic hues swimming through a grayscale sea, ever restless. Harlequin explosions punctuate the air. The adventurous colors glaze over a tired, lonely window. Vignettes of every shade flash chaotically upon the translucent glass, each color fighting to display its story on a broken television.</p><p>One particular note of his reshaped into a meaningful creature. His voice resonated inside of it, simulating a powerful dance, one overflowing with vigorous want, the yearning of freedom. <em>The story that we can’t go back to again.</em></p><p>Something clicks in his ears. Time speeds up.</p><p>Doyoung inhales.</p><p>He watches remotely as colors splatter upon gray surfaces, twice the speed they were previously, then fade as if evaporating; the closed door that he had never touched slightly dissolves into its frame, edges blurring slowly, its outline undefined; the lively swirls ghost through walls, furniture, him.</p><p>Typically, he’s used to this. The fish that splashed into him, the fauna that ran through him, they’ve all done this before, all feel the same. But this time, his new melodic creature pierces him smoothly for the first time, and it hits a different key, plucks a different string than all the other beings. With each time the eccentric dragon of want passes through him, he feels the tingle of a fraction more of his essence being carried away. Oh, that’s new.</p><p>And that went on, for the timelapse persists. It knows him inside out now. He knows it, as well. It was interesting.</p><p>Click. Time slows down.</p><p>Doyoung exhales.</p><p>Another glance at the door: an exit, but for how much longer? That answer was uncertain. He holds his gaze a little too long for it to be called a glance anymore. Lowering his eyes, he turns, and he paces this room once again, colorful step after colorful step. <em>This short dream, oh, your memories.</em></p><p>(How long has he been here?)</p><p>—</p><p>Mark’s sun threw himself into the Edge one month ago. His sun spiraled and weakened, much too similar to the actual flaming star above. The star had burnt billions of times faster than reasonable, its energy deteriorating at an alarming rate, reaching a point undeniably close to death within a span of a couple of years. Yet, it still provided enough light for day and night cycles to continue regularly on earth, as well as a stable and conventional amount of heat. Though, scientifically, that shouldn’t have been possible.</p><p>Now, debris and remnants of other celestial bodies less fortunate than it clouded the heavens. The sun’s luminescence remained visible, yes, but it characterized as a hazy glow rather than the firm rays of sunshine that once beat down on beaches and farmlands. All in all, the sun itself isn’t viewable, the only evidence of it still being there is the obvious existence of life and NASA’s once-in-a-blue-moon release of random space pictures online. (They never were as majestic as before; they never will be, not unless time decides to turn itself back far enough in the black oblivion of the universe, and more specifically, this galaxy, to bring back all those glamorous nebulas and striking constellations that appear to be long gone, at least for now.)</p><p>But <em>his</em> sun, Mark’s sun, was more radiant than the real one ever was. This he knew, even from what few memories he could recollect. His sun was brighter, livelier, burned hotter than the colossal orb ever has. He shined upon him when he was in the dark; he shined upon everyone, a blazing torch to their flickering candle.</p><p>That’s why he thinks it wasn’t a coincidence when the day after his full sun burned out, news breaks that the fiery star above the dying atmosphere rewound itself several million years, shining brighter than he’s ever remembered witnessing in his lifetime.</p><p>(How long has he been alone?)</p><p>—</p><p>A reoccurring dream, no, rather, a reoccurring boy in his dreams. An elegant, dancing boy; every arch in his body reflecting blue in the red moonlight, every fluid motion piercing the violet mist. Lucas has never seen him while conscious.</p><p>But the emotion he feels every night, observing and taking it all in, the art this ethereal boy paints with his body; it’s too real, touches him way too deep. Each refined movement carves a scar on his heart, and all he can do is watch.</p><p>Most nights are the same: the boy twirls and bends in a far-too-distant pavilion, his figure twisting in the most breathtaking formations, while Lucas observes from afar, hands trembling, encased in a vexing glass capsule.</p><p>Some nights, he’s closer, the dancing boy’s silhouette behind a thin, simple shoji, animated contour taunting him. Other nights, the boy’s face is scarcely concealed by the delinquent branches of a dignified willow, just out of reach. Lucas wanted to call out to him, but he couldn’t make a sound. He wanted to walk around the tree in desperate search of a mere peek at his features, but every step he took circling it, the boy also moved that direction, away from his line of sight, like they were magnets of the same polarity, never able to meet. It frustrated him.</p><p>Finally, one night, he saw him. He entered the dreamscape holding the moon in his palms, that time. Cautionary red surrounded him, minacious orange blended down from overhead. He stood under an arch. It was different, confusing, admonitory. An unsettling feeling rested in his gut.</p><p>He had stared at the moon in his hands that night, uneasy, and then he heard a familiar tuned strike of a tanggu. A hasty swivel of his head and there he was: a circle of frosted curtains environed him, and he danced, the same contemporary-esque dance as always, the same traditional-tinged song as always, there on the patterned platform. Lucas saw his face for the first and last time.</p><p>And that time was enough. The feelings that surged underneath his skin at that moment, the sensations that laced his veins, the excitement that drove into his heart, the passion that flowed through him—no, he feels way too much for it to be a creative fabrication of his imagination.</p><p>So, he began questioning: what if he knows him; what if he has forgotten him?</p><p>Then, he began fearing: what if he has forgotten himself?</p><p>(How long until he remembers?)</p><p>—</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if u didn't get it the dancing boy at the end is ten BC REMEMBER xuxi was in dream in a dream mv so this is basically that from his perspective OOOOOH conspiracy theories</p><p>only posted like a third of the original doc this is so sad. might go back and renovate some shit and stick some more into this fucked up universe despite the nonexistent plot. just vibes</p></blockquote></div></div>
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